Originally published at LonPrater.com. You can comment here or there.

(An occasional reminder to myself of the things I think I’ve figured out about the craft, hobby, business, joy and dismay of writing, being a writer, and having a head full of strange. Feel free to come along for the ride.)

The novel I just finished brought me in touch with my omniscient voice.  The next project is also demanding that approach. Recently read Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book, again with the omniscient voice (and masterfully done, to boot).  So it’s been on my mind a lot, thinking about how the whole thing ticks in a story.  Then a friend brought the subject up in email and I had a chance to think through it in a bit more depth.  Of all things, I came up with a Marvel comics analogy…

As far as omniscient voice goes, I’ve come to believe there are two modes of omniscient voice: THE WATCHER and GALACTUS

The Watcher observes everything, but unobtrusively, feels free to add in his own editorial comment so long as the emphasis remains on the story, ie just in the choice of words/phrasing used to tell the story and the order information is doled out in. Galactus also adds in editorial comment, but he is much more interested in making the story about him, and wants you to know that he’s the one calling the shots.  If you let him, Galactus will eat your story.

What I learned over the last novel (and a couple recent omni-vp reads) is that a little Galactus goes a long way; and yet with no Galactus at all, the story’s voice can end up suffering from a lack of identity and sound too much like a generic fairytale/19th century voice.  Jumping back to the other end of the spectrum again, any Galactus at all will mightily disturb those readers who do not want to be jostled out of their close 3rd person security blankies; it’s a risk, going omni-voice, to be sure.

The real benefit (and opportunity to trip yourself up) comes when there is the chance to be in two people’s head in the same scene. “he said, she said” provides opportunities for comedy, but also for cranking up the tension when two different people see two different things happening. It lends itself to a cinematic feel, but everything else in the story better be working to keep the reader engaged.

Moral: Galactus needs to speak up every so often, but don’t let him steal the show and distract from the story. Every time he opens his mouth to speak, it better be worthy of a planet-destroying god.

Also, just like in Marvel’s WHAT IF? series, you need to make sure your reader is aware that something is a little different with your perspective right up front.  If you wait to long to let the reader know that The Watcher is narrating, it will jar the reader right out of the story when you finally do.  What I’m seeing as a best practice is to make sure the reader is aware you are using omniscient voice by the beginning of the second scene, if not sooner.

Originally published at LonPrater.com. You can comment here or there.

(An occasional reminder to myself of the things I think I’ve figured out about the craft, hobby, business, joy and dismay of writing, being a writer, and having a head full of strange. Feel free to come along for the ride.)

To me, a good setting needs to feel permanent, in the sense of a infant’s recognition of object permanence. The setting goes on, even when no one is looking at it. How can you do this? Create enough concrete, particular detail that the reader is left assured that the setting has existed before the characters showed up, and will continue to exist after they leave. (The Villain’s Lair and other explodable domains notwithstanding, of course!)

There needs to be a diversity of sensory stimuli present. Both conflicting and harmonious elements within the setting which give it the depth and interest of characterization. And also, a sense of history about the place–who has been here, what they did, etc. (All of which fiction is better at presenting than many other modes of storytelling, IMHO).

Settings past may be gone, but they shouldn’t be forgotten. Characters should occasionally wish for the coolness of the cave grotto they were hiding in last week, especially now that they are on a forced march across the desert. Characters should be aware of the contrasts between where they are now, where they’d rather be, and where they are actually headed. Doubt it? Write a story about a guy sitting in the back of a police car who just got framed for a child murder. Bet he’s awfully concerned about his future setting….

That sense of history mentioned above leads into the other element: change. In every scene, something should change in your setting. Whether that change alters the setting in a lasting, fundamental way (a lightning-blasted tree catching the entire woods ablaze), or simply represents the objects within the setting in motion (the crisp leaves stirring underfoot, chased by a brisk October wind), either or both will be needed to give your setting the same sort of texture as a fully realized character.

Consider to what degree you want your characters and setting to affect each other as they interact.  It’s not just a one-way street–even when your setting is literally a, um, one way street. (Sorry, couldn’t resist!)

A setting can benefit from a sense of future as well. Will that setting stay the same forever and ever, like my memories of my grandparents’ house, or will it be repainted, with weird new ornaments placed in the yard and on the porch by future occupants?

In fiction we have the tools of point-of-view character rumination, omniscient voice (if used), dialogue of other characters familiar with the location, and of course the selective detail we draw the readers’ attention to as the scene develops. Thriller movies and novels rarely use a setting twice, except for whatever passes for HQ. But in other types of stories, the prohibition is a bit more lax and you see settings recur more often. Even so, the very best writers tend to ensure that over the course of a novel (or series!) settings that reappear change in readily identifiable ways over time.

Sidenote:  Here’s an old article I wrote on setting,  “The Stowaway in Your Story (How to Make a Lazy Setting Earn its Keep)”.

Originally published at LonPrater.com. You can comment here or there.

Reposting myself from elsewhere by popular demand.  :)

Not so long ago, a friend on Codex* mentioned in a thread on query letters that she’d been so focused on writing query letters she was talking to her husband in hook format.

To which I replied:

Did it sound like this?

Dear Husband,

When simple broccoli is plucked from its idyllic garden home, a chain of events is set in motion that involves an aged cheese, boiling water, and harsh metal implements. Alongside blackened chicken tenderloins and a wacky, exuberant struedel, they must fight a terrible hunger that has been threatening to overwhelm the entire household!

I have been cooking for my entire adult life, and people you know and respect have enjoyed my meals. My most recent effort, DINNER, is complete at 475 calories. May I interest you in doing the dishes?

Sincerely,

Wife

*(She’s welcome to out herself if she chooses, but I’ll stick with the privacy policies of the site till then.)

Originally published at LonPrater.com. You can comment here or there.

Some thoughts I posted elsewhere that I want to be able to find again one day. Subject of a discussion came around to what exactly people mean when they say writers need to have a thick skin.

My thoughts:

To me, “thick skin” means being open to what truth or value there may be in criticisms of your work or technique or skill, while ignoring any implications or direct statements that disparage “you” as a person or artist. It means seeking the constructive in all criticism and not letting the fact that you aren’t perfect (and–GASP!–people know it!) sway you from continually striving to improve yourself, work hard and reach your goals.

Having a “thick skin” as a writer means practicing what Eleanor Roosevelt preached: Do what you feel in your heart to be right - for you’ll be criticized anyway. You’ll be damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.

And especially: No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.

After more thought, and the suggestion that if a rejection didn’t hurt then it might mean the writer’s heart wasn’t in the story:

For me, some rejections do sting–in the sense of dashed hopes of landing that particular sale to a market that I thought was a great match, but not in terms of “this must mean my story is bad and I am a bad writer and Simon Cowell won’t let me go to Hollywood”–but many rejections do not sting. Most do not. Early on, this wasn’t true. I’d get my hopes up with every submission and come crashing back to earth with every reject. I’m approaching 1000 rejections now (counting poetry) and honestly, if I let them all affect me I’d need medication.

Nowadays I am able to separate the passion of art from the business of trying to sell it. This may make me an odd bird, I dunno. But anyway, all this rambling has just been to point out that a rejection not stinging doesn’t necessarily mean your heart wasn’t in the story. It just means that you have a firm grasp on the statistics involved, and realize that even pocket aces can lose. And when they do lose, it doesn’t devalue them as cards in your hand…

Honest writing does require laying bare your heart, etc. Honest selling calls for knowing the story is the best you can make it and then putting enough effort into the selling process to beat the statistics stacked up against even the most brilliant of stories (and authors).

Originally published at LonPrater.com. You can comment here or there.

Saving this here so I can find it later and point at it every so often.  Originally, I tossed this out over on Sean Williams’ LJ in a thread about anti-media-tie-in snobbery.  I didn’t think to bring comics and anime snobbery into the post at the time, but I’m sure it has a place in there somewhere as well.

The history of SF snobbery, in brief: (TONGUE IN CHEEK)

1) Old guard SF got no respect from the mainstream literary crowd, who mostly believed POPULAR=TRASH.

2) The New Wave tried to get respect from the mainstream literary crowd, with grudging, modest success. Sometimes, they adopted the mainstream literary world’s P=T philosophy. I think it was what they traded away for acceptance, like in some high school drama of the 70s.

3) Major SF movie franchises, D&D, computer gaming and the internet happened. They all conspired as sentient things to reset the equation: it became P=$.

4) Now SF in it’s broadest terms thrives in all media forms. The only people looking to cut one leg off the table [ie denigrate media tie-in or other popular expressions of the genre] are those too hidebound or shortsighted to realize that it’s all the same darn table!